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It's four o'clock Sunday afternoon, Hanoi, Vietnam.
The sun is still high up enough to make me sweat even as I am sat down in a comfortable ratan chair of one of the plenty hostels Hanoi has to offer. I take a sip from my ice coffee, a drink I genuinly mistrusited until I entered Hanoi - a coffee's drinker answer to the heat, that's what it is.
The last few days were a pain. I was so eager to be back on track (i.e. travelling) but after getting into Hanoi my days were spent in administrative duties. Administrative in the best of sense, I must add, since I was in search of the one mean gasoline consuming machine that would take me through a good chunk of Southeast Asia!
And succesfull I was in finding one - on the third day of the try-outs. What I did not expect though was the amount of effort required to get me on the road.
Nevertheless after six days I am all ready to rumble and the last thing preventing me from taking off is a photo of me and my new metal companion (no nerdy reference here) being uploaded onto facebook; so if not much is left of me to scrape of the road at least you know who I spent the last moments with. Ehm..
Engage the clutch, kick in the first gear and here we go!
I raise up me left hand hand in a wave to the man who witnessed most of my get-the-bike odessey and take a sharp left turn and flow almost seamlessly into the abundant Hanoi traffic of this late afternoon hour. The bike handles quite differently with all my possessions strapped on but that makes half of the excitement I feel as I swirl through the countless other means of transportation.
It feels good to have the traffic flowing around me as I say my last good byes to the Old Quarter and venture into the new territories of Hanoi.
The safe mid-town road makes way to a short run of a Vietnamese version of a highway followed by a ride through the mile long Long Bien bridge over the Red river.
The sound of traffic dims in the satisfying hum of the growling two-stroke engine between my thighs as I switch to the fourth gear and adjust the camera on my multi-purpose google phone safely taped to my rear-view mirror.
Another ten minutes and I am out in the outskirts of the capital. As much as Hanoi Hanoi is a chapter of its own, the wide Hanoi is just another big city with nothing much to please the eye.
There is however the road with all it's Vietnamese style driving requiring ninetynine percent of my attention anyway.
Causion is definitely the word of the day as I have to jump on the brake quite a few times to avoid the demented bus drivers who, with the tons on their side, feel free to pull up in front of you to pick up random passengers as you ride in a safe and secure manner in your rightiest lane.
I am convinced on several occassions that it will surely take some time before I get used to go for the main brake under my right foot instead of the clutch under my left hand's fingers. But what is the more absolute way then learning with the roads of Vietnam under you wheels!?
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I give the setting sun a last look in the back mirror as I flick the right sidelight on and press on the break to pull into the gas station.
I've been riding for over an hour and Hanoi outskirts have been long replaced by the less inhabited Vietnam lowlands. I can smell the fresh air of the rural country as I bring the clutch to neutral and glide into the petrol station.
I am still fairly loaded on fuel but I want to make sure how much further there is before I have to leave Highway 5 for the road 118.
The engine doesn't find the time to get used to the comfort of not being used before I am surrounded by all the personel of the station and their happen-to-be-wintnesses.
As I am being filled half of the dozen liters that fit the tank I check my fabulous google phone for updates on my whereabouts. There seems to be a good twenty more klicks before I've got to leave the highway.
I pay off my debt, start the engine and head back for the highway.
The sun has definitely moved beyond the horizon now and before I have the chance to merge with the traffic I flick the headlight switch on my bike. To my surprise nothing happens and I am forced to pull back to the sidewalk. I try my sidelights and the horn with similar effect - nothing happens.
Damn it! The whole electrics has gone dead!
Welcome to the Minsk experience!
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Perhaps this is the right time for a little background on the machine:
It is a Belorussian-make motorcycke with a two-stroke 125cc engine. Surprisingly it is still in production although to find a new one in Vietname is almost impossible. The machines were exported here in vast numbers during the era of the Vietnam-Soviet friendship.
They have survived the test of time and my particular exemplar is a good proof. Built in the revolutionary year of '89 it has survived it surely more then once. I have no proof of it's whereabouts before I laid my hands on it but making it to the Hanoi mechanic I bought it from it apparently had a few road-trip kilometers on it's virtual hodometer.
Virtual because such an instrument was never installed on any of these. In fact even the speedometers generally don't function - I have had the chance to see seven Minsks with none of the meters fucntional. But that is all a mere tiny black spot on the otherwise clean shield of the machine's work record: it is widly used in the rural country for various tasks from helping the farmers plant the seeds to carry dead buffalos from the muds of sudden landslides after extensive rains.
To my knowledge (backed by google) it is now the only dirtbike (understand two-stroke engine) in production that comes with a leisure common-person seat.
All aside, mine, old as it is, had most of its guts replaced or refreshed before I parted with my 400 american dollars. That unfortunately does not mean that there aren't plenty other parts that could use replacing or at least refreshing..
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I turn the machine around and find a safe spacious spot near the gas station.
First things first, I light up a cigarette and dismount. After a few puffs, all relaxed, I kick-start the beast to find it purring as if all was perfectly fine.
I am prepared for situations like these - the few evenings in Hanoi with the Minsk already in my possesion I have read up on the ways how its guts hang together. I am sporting a hefty toolkit and a fair amount of replacement parts (together some five kilos woth of gear) with zero practical knowledge though..
Using the analytical mind god gave me I am able to ascertain (or rather guess) that the problem lies with the electric box under the seat that routes the elcetric current from the two different coil sets of the generator to the spark plug via a transformator to get the high voltage required for a spark and the less power thirsty tools such as the lights and the horn.
The only problem is that the circuitry is hidden below the seat that has all my luggage strapped to it.
I take another puff and give it another though. I can see a big fat shiny advertisement for a hotel just across the road. Can we really be bothered?
Yes we can! I take advice from Obama's primary campaign and start unwrapping. It is only freshly past six and I am nowhere ready to retire.
Once the seat is removed I see the old familiar electric box (I have had a peek before I took off). I remove the adapters from the in and out slots to find that the out one is barely holding together. Readjusting the wires and cramming the adapters back in with the help of a nearby-lying rockI kick start again and voila the lights come to life with a merry spark!
Ladi vs. Minsk 1 - 0!
I cannot but smile over the true fact I read about Minsks somewhere on the internet - to fix the bastard sometimes all you need is a piece of cloth, a stick or a rock!
The dark road tastes sweet.. In the experience from behind the windshield and out there in the flesh there is no comparison. The trucks chasing my tail shine more then enough light on the road ahead for me to see confortably. The ocassional bus in the other lane does the exact opposite but I am not riding too fast to feel unsafe.
And so I ride, passing a few checkpoints where I am always held up but never asked for papers and making a few more stops to make sure I am still on the right road. At one point I am forced to turn around to get back on track.
I did buy a fairly detailed paper map but who needs one when you've got a google phone?
As it appears even the mighty google can go wrong! And after disregarding the advice from a Vietnamese woman when I somewhat unaware pull into her courtyard I end up having to cross a river over an obviously semi-pedestrian bridge following a row of other motorcycles.
Few more turns and we seem to be back on track!
At least so I think as I continue down a rather minor road through another town, my google phone still insisting this road being 'the one'. The organic light of a living rural town soon makes way to the artificial uniformity of an architect's industrial design.
I am looking for a sharp right turn that is supposed to be somewhere ahead when I realise that I am being passed by a third motorcycle carrying two lads in blue factory ware and yellow helmets. I have no chance to doubt my route before I have to slow down for a complete different type of a checkpoint:
I spot five uniformed security guards in merry chatter, controlling the traffic out of the factory, as I pull by the long road bar.
The guards are forced to break the socialising at the sight of a white man on a no-longer-so-ordinary motorcycle materialising by their gates.
Good day sirs, is there any chance I can get through? I volunteer without any real hope towards a positive answer. It is indeed a funny situation and the bunch seems to appreciate it fully.
I turn my bike around and by the time I'm in the third gear I regret not lingering and sharing my Vietnam-make Marlboros. It would surely have been enojyed...
It is past eight now as I am back on track after retracing my steps a mere four kilometers. I am surprised at the amount of teengers rolling down these roads at this hour. It is Sunday afterall, but I am fairly sure that doesn't mean anything in this part of the world. I am being shouted hellos at on a regular basis since leaving Hanoi but here the fellow drivers are even more sociable.
I spend a good three minutes exchanging pleasantries and basic facts with two lads on a Honda. Both of us, in turns, demonstrate what our machines can do before we settle on a medium speed suitable for a bike to bike chat.
I sure like the Vietnamese, I must say. There is no trace left of the Chinese shyness here..
As the clock hits nine I am quite eager to find somewhere to crash for the night.
I have abandoned the idea of camping since these lands are all roads, villages and wet rice paddies in between. No pretty setting to fuel the dreams and so I opt for a hotel instead.
I settle for the second one housed in a slim five story building with an inviting decor visible from the road.
I give the clutch some good punishment as I force the front wheel up a high curb making my way to the hotel across the pavement after pulling in by it's neighbours.
I would love to be able to say 'I pull the key out of the ignition', but my Minsk hasn't got such a thing so saying 'I pull a lever to turn the engine off' will unfortunately have to suffice.
I take off the helmet to releave my sore head - it is too big for most of the European standards, not to mention Vietnamese - and put it under my arm like a proper biker as I enter the building. Not entirely sure whether it is a hotel at all my doubts are soon disperced as I am greeted by a very congenial Vietnamese lady and assured that I have indeed come to the right place. -
Oh, what the hell, I will say it: the Vietnamese lady is super sexy (but if any one asks, I said nothing!). -
The husband takes over the counter and I accept the proposed 170,000 dong (this is the local currency - for some reason it's preceed by 'Vietnamese' as if there was any other country with such a currency). I leave my passport with the man - something I will still have to get used to.
I am being shown to my room all the way to the fifth floor by no one other then the very lovable wife. As she explains whatever it is in her harmonic Vietnamese I reply with whatever compliments I can come up with ended with a question mark.
When she is safely departed and I am about to hop into a warm shower a knock on the door reveals the mighty husband himself! Oh god, is she one of those unheard of cases that speaks Slovak in her native Vietnam? Nah, that is far too overstretched even for a paranoid mind! The man just arrived to make sure all is fine and dandy!
He sits himself down and begins writing things down on a piece of paper he brought with him. Before we hit the hardcore stuff I learn he is of the year of god 1975 and his name is Njam. This exchange of trivia seems to be plenty enough to switch to the juicier subjects: totally out of nowhere he brings his hands to his chest and draws two very plump breasts in the air.
I find it highly unlikely that he is trying to divulge he is a post-op transvestite and I find it similarily unlikely that he could think I may be mistakening him for a homoxesual.
Next he points his finger at me with a conspicouos smile on his face followed by a glance towards the bed. When he finally tilts his sideways into his arm outstretched in a virtual embrace and kisses the imaginary figure there is very little doubt in my mind: he must be suggesting a partner for me to ease the time of passing into sleep.
I smile back widely at the thought of him being of eskimo decendency and so kindly offering his slamming hot wife to me - or maybe a daughter who if looks anything like her mother...
Being without close female company for a while now I find myself nodding to the never formed question before I know it. I soon realise that the most likely scenario is that the lady in question is not related to him at all and probably charges by the hour but his warm attitude and friendly appearance make my mind favor the first option.
When he finally lets me be I hop into the shower to get rid of the grime of the road - riding in shorts is not the best option after a rain, if nothing else this much I've learned today.
All clean and refreshed with no developments in the lady case I run down to get a drink before retiring to my laptop to finish off the bloody Mongolian journal. But I have no chance to set foot outside before I'm being called into the kitchen for a drink which turns out to be a homemade spirit of a rather grimy looking opaque consistency.
After seeing the half empty 50 liter plastic tank filled with leaves, spices and some rather unidentifiable objects that could have possible moved through the forrest at some point of their existence I turn away to shut off the mind and down the drink in one go. It burns my temples but tastes surprisingly acceptable. Before I know it there is another half full two deciliter glass put before me and I surrender to the will of the host.
We spend the evening in a surprisingly fluent conversation about our families and places we've been. I speak zero Vietnamese and my hosts similar amount of English but they are very perceptive and armed with only our hands, a pen, paper and smiles of various lengths we spend good two hours making slow but notable progress with the contents of the plastic tank.
It becomes clear fairly early on he is definitely not an Eskimo, his daugher is three years old (I shiver at the thought) and he is much in love with his wife and is not afraid to show it.
By the time our little soiree is over and my senses excited by the 2.5 deciliters of the hard stuff I find my self rather keenly turning the other option over in my mind while climbing the five sets of stairs to my room. I come to the conclusion that man has his needs when I hear a knock on my door revealing the husband himself with another one of those big smiles on his face. I return the favor and keenly await the question. But he only nods his head seeing I got up here in on piece, wishes me good night and on his way out almost falls over and down the stairs.
And thus my evening ends as countless others before in the company of my restless mind and the quiet of the night. But this time it is different, for I have a new companion eagerly waiting for me to be let loose on the Vietnam roads. And I can't wait to do so. After a good night's sleep that is..
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